The Maine Massacre

21

Janet Wash dropped her long graceful hands to her lap and sat up a little straighter. Her tongue found a small morsel of chocolate-covered cookie that hadn't quite crunched yet. She pushed it between her teeth, chewed, and swallowed. Her eyelashes fluttered down and swept up.

"No," she said. "I don't believe it. You'll have to tell me again, my little man. Are you trying to blackmail me?"

The commissaris stirred his tea. He didn't want to look at his hostess. Her pose and general acting were quite good, of course, but any performance that contains too many repetitions tends to become monotonous. His eyes wandered about and studied his surroundings. The porch was vast, equaling the combined floor space of the entire first story of Suzanne's house. Its furniture was all cane, old and gracious. There were simple chairs and elaborate couches, blossoming out into great ovals and side wings, thickly padded and upholstered in linen. The linen was richly embroidered, by Chinese artists probably, in the days that James D. Symons' tea clippers waited for their cargoes in the harbors of Canton and Hong Kong. The porch was well heated by tall woodstoves. He counted three, each with its own supply of logs, split neatly, stacked meticulously. Reggie's handiwork no doubt. Whatever Reggie did he did well.

"So," the icy delicate voice said. "Let's go through all this again. You claim that you know that I murdered all these people, or had them murdered. Now what were their names again? I forget so easily when I am not interested. Jones, you said? And Davidson? And that ridiculous Brewer woman who tried so hard to be the arty, sporty type? And good old Pete Opdijk? I do remember his name. He always tried to stay for dinner when he was only invited for a drink. And such a crushing bore. Now, that's what you said, wasn't it? I did murder all these people?"

"That's right, madam."

"Well, really. Wasn't it clever of you to have found out. And wasn't it clever of you not to want to tell anybody but me. Now why was that again?"

The commissaris folded his hands on the silver handle of his cane and rested his chin on top of them.

"Ah yes. How superbly intelligent! You went all the way to Boston to talk to my nephew, young Jimmy. And Jimmy Symons manages my holding companies. Well, that much is true. I do own the family's land again. But I bought the land quite legally you know."

The commissaris shook his head patiently.

"Didn't I buy it?"

"At give-away prices, madam."

She snorted. "What nonsense. You said that before. You suggested that I contrived and schemed and managed to use Michael Astrinsky so that he would buy me the vacated land, and the miserable hovels on the land, for next to nothing."

"That's correct, madam."

"More tea?"

"Oh yes, please."

"More tea you will have. I'll pour it into your cup, not into your face as you deserve. We must remember our manners. Here you are."

Janet poured and the commissaris sipped.

"A most delicate taste," he said pleasantly. "Not at all like Suzanne's tea."

She clapped her hands. 'Taste? You dare to use that word? My God! And you have the bad taste to tell me that I am a criminal but that you'll forget that fact if I pay a hundred thousand for Suzanne's bourgeois monstrosity!"

"That would be the proper market value of Suzanne's very comfortable home, madam. If you want her land you should pay the price. And I promise you that once I have the check, Suzanne and the sergeant and I will leave and that I will not pass my information to the sheriff. The sheriff is an ambitious young man, but he hasn't made a name for himself yet. With my, and the sergeant's, help he can take you to court and obtain your conviction. It will be a good start for his career."

Janet tucked her legs under her long skirt. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the split leaves of a large potted palm. "What garbage. I will call your bluff. As-trinsky, my little slave, ever faithful because he remembers before I remind him, will renew his offer of thirty thousand and you will be glad to take it. What else can you do? There are no other buyers."

The commissaris bowed his small head. "Very well, madam. You leave me no option. I can prove what Reggie did to Mary Brewer's boat. He was seen by several local young men and I was lucky enough to find them. I can also produce a witness who saw what Reggie did to Mr. Davidson. Reggie, when questioned properly, will implicate you. You will lose your house, all your land, and your liberty. But you shouldn't blame me. I offered a choice."

Janet laughed. A harsh, not altogether artificial tinkle of high notes. "Bluff, my dear sir. But you do not really know who and what I am. I can trace my ancestors for many generations and I have friends in high places, and I am a Yankee. Yankees have dealt with the Dutch before, here and in the Far East where my forefathers made their fortune. Whenever we compete with the Dutch we win, because we call their bluff and refuse to make a deal. It was we who coined such expressions as "double Dutch," "to go Dutch," and "a Dutch treat."

"Really?" the commissaris asked politely.

The sheriff grinned. He started the cruiser and reversed a few feet to get the sun out of his eyes. He switched the engine off. The cruiser was parked in the dip of a path leading to the Wash mansion. It was out of sight of the house, but close enough. No more than two thousand feet from the front porch. The sheriff settled back and adjusted the volume of his radio.

"So?" Janet asked. "You've heard all I have to say. Isn't it time you took yourself away?"

"You also tried to kill Jeremy," the commissaris said. "And this time you made the effort yourself. Wasn't Reggie available that day?"

De Gier was also in the sun, but he couldn't move out of its glaring light. The sergeant was perched on a rock behind the mansion's back porch. He had to be careful to stay out of Janet's sight-and out of Reggie's sight. He hadn't seen Reggie when he'd left the sheriff's cruiser and made his way through the cedar bushes along die shore. He had heard Reggie. The man was splitting wood somewhere close by. He couldn't hear him now.

"Reggie," Janet said. "Certainly he was available."

"Didn't he try, Mrs. Wash?"

Janet sat up a little straighter. "Yes, once. He made it to the island but was stopped by the dogs. Jeremy let him go. Our hermit can be a perfect idiot at times. He hasn't even learned from his animals. Animals kill what they catch."

"I see. But why did you say that Reggie was driving your car when the accident happened? You were at the wheel, weren't you? Suzanne saw you."

"Suzanne!" Janet waved the name away as if it were an insect. "I said Reggie was at the wheel because Reggie should have been at the wheel. But Reggie still minks of excuses whenever I mention Jeremy. I believe Reggie likes the man." She laughed shortly. "But Reggie will listen to me. I am not giving in. Not to you either. You know that now, don't you?"

The commissaris muttered his agreement. "Indeed. How did you manage to find such a good man, Mrs. Wash?"

Janet giggled. "Through a magazine. One of the day laborers once left a magazine and I looked through it. It was called The Mercenary, and it was filled with stories about tough men and what they had done in the wars and what they were doing now in private armies, serving sheiks and princes in out-of-the-way places. There were some advertisements too, and one of them caught my attention. It went something like mis: Vietnam veteran. Light weapons and unarmed combat. Guerrilla operations specialist. Officer rank. Interested in country work of any description. Serious offers only. Details. Reggie. And a telephone number. I telephoned, we had a nice chat, and he flew in the next day. He has never left."

The sheriff was still listening. De Gier wasn't. He had moved to the edge of his rock when he heard the snow crackle and he was crouching down near his radio, although there was little point in being furtive. Reggie was only a few yards away, on the next rock.

"Hello," Reggie said.

"Hello."

"Listening to the radio, are you? Who is she talking to? To your friend the commissioner?"

"She is."

"She is talking a lot, isn't she? Your friend is very clever. But you are not. You are in my way, sergeant."

De Gier got up and slipped out of his heavy coat. "Can I choose my own accident?"

"No. The others couldn't either. Your body will go into the bay, and it will stay in the bay."

De Gier flexed his muscles and controlled his breathing. Reggie wasn't armed. "Do a good job this time, Reggie. Mary Brewer's corpse was found. So was her boat. You've been careless with the evidence."

Reggie grinned. "You're a fool, sergeant. I gave you fair warning when I shot the tail off your hat. I should have shot you in the chest, but Janet told me to be subtle. She should have listened to me. It doesn't do to be subtle with woodchucks."

Reggie jumped and de Gier fell over sideways, extending a leg for the big man to trip over. Reggie fell but rolled over and came again.

"Madam," the commissaris pleaded. "I do advise you to take my proposition seriously. You can still save yourself a lot of really bad trouble."

He leaned a little further forward and his cane slipped out of the rug. He pulled it back with too much force, and the handle came up and knocked the microphone from under his lapel. The microphone fell and dangled on its cord. Janet stared at it. Then she stopped staring, got up slowly^ and snatched. The commissaris thought she aimed for the microphone and brought up a defensive hand. But Janet had grabbed his cane and raised it.

"Help!" the commissaris said quietly.

"Shit," the sheriff said. He started the cruiser and moved his automatic shift. The rear wheels of the cruiser spun on the ice in the dip of the path. "SHIT!" the sheriff shouted and got out of the car and began to run toward the house.

When Reggie came again de Gier was more careful. He had left his rock and jumped down onto the ledge, where the beach met the bay. Reggie rushed straight at the sergeant, pretending to aim for his chest but brought up his hand at the last moment, with two stiff fingers pointed at de Gier's eyes. De Gier moved his head, grabbed Reggie's sleeves, and pushed him to the side, pivoting Reggie's body on his own leg. The sergeant's flat hand came down as Reggie slipped off his leg. The hand crushed Reggie's nose. De Gier stepped back. Reggie fell but jumped up and came again. His punch made contact, but the sergeant veered with it and grabbed Reggie's wrist. The sergeant didn't use the restraint he had been taught by his instructors. His fingers pressed on, and Reggie's wrist snapped back and broke. Reggie staggered back until his heels found some support against the rock. He pushed himself off the rock with his good arm and kicked. De Gier swayed slightly, waited for Reggie's foot to reach the top of its curve, caught the foot and pushed it up. Reggie's other foot slipped on the ice and he smashed back against the rock, hitting it with the back of his skull. He crumpled and slid down. Reggie's eyes broke as de Gier bent down to peer into his face.

De Gier ran too. He reached the porch when the sheriff reached the front door. They found the commissaris behind one of the woodstoves, legs wide apart, ready to jump one way or another. Janet was on the other side of the stove, brandishing the cane. The commissaris had lost his glasses, and he bled from a cut on his cheek.

The sergeant grabbed the cane and twisted it out of Janet's hand. Janet screamed and went on screaming until the sheriff slapped her face. The sheriff pushed her roughly into a chair. De Gier picked up the commissaris' glasses and gave them to his chief. "Sorry, sir. Reggie found me on the beach and we fought. I killed him."

"You killed him?" Janet screamed. The sheriff raised his hand. "Shut up."

Janet's eyes opened wide and closed. "Little men," she mumbled. "Little men. Reggie was right. They are like woodchucks, tunneling and prying. Destroying what others try to build. How can we kill them all when there are so many? Reggie got some, but there are too many left. And only me on this side. Only me."

She began to cry.

"I killed him," de Gier said quietly to a potted palm. "I've never killed a man before."

The commissaris limped to the sergeant, leaning on his stick. He put a hand on de Gier's sleeve.

"Rinus."

De Gier's eyes had closed. He turned toward the commissaris, but his legs were giving way. His hands grabbed the palm and pulled it to the floor. His knees buckled and he fell with the palm.